Camper Van Dreams

What I've been thinking about this every week:

1. Tea.
2. Books.

Over lunch today, I suggested to Ivie that it's just as well that we got together when we did. It's not just that we started seeing each other in a November - any other month and Ivie would have been far too busy working - but that I was far too boring in my 20s or 30s for Ivie to have paid me any attention. Now that I'm nearing 50, I can put it down to middle age, rather than my actual personality. 

Unlike Ivie, I've never been the life and soul of the party. Even as a student, I was quite happy to be tucked up in bed long before my flatmates crashed home in the wee small hours, singing and burning toast.

There are times I look back and think I wasted the student experience but the reality is, I've always been a fairly solitary creature who can manage a little bit of socialising before needing a nice cup of tea, a sit down and a good book. 

I saw this online the other day. 

We might not be - or have any plans ever to be - married (been there, done that, binned the t-shirt) but the principle still stands. It's funny because it's true. 
 

Anyway, all this is by way of introduction to the realisation that we came to at the weekend. The signs have been there for a while and we've ignored them as best we can. But it's time to face the truth. The fact is, we're officially MIDDLE-AGED.

As I say, there have been clues along the way:

• we co-own a dog.
• we co-own a camper van. 
• we do the crossword online every lunchtime. 

The clincher involved something neither of us knew existed. You know how motorcyclists nod at each other when they see each other on the road? Well, this is the less cool version for middle-aged camper van drivers - they wave at each other, even from the other side of the motorway! Imagine how many times Ivie had to wave along the A75, M74, M80 and A9 before we got to my auntie's at Dunkeld. And then all the way home again. On the Easter Weekend. It was A LOT. 

Dog in a camper van

Suffice to say, if there was a Ministry of Funny Waves, Ivie would have been a fully fledged Senior Minister by the time we got home on Sunday night. I'm now wondering if there's a French version for when we head there in September or whether we'll just have to perfect a nonchalant shrug. 

Mmmm, Biscuits

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Books

What Ivie has been thinking about this week:

• The end of lambing

Those of you who are regular readers (thanks, by the way) will know that I've got an over-imaginative immune system. At the first sign of trouble, it over-reacts and sends me to bed for a few days. Obviously, I'm very glad of my suppressed immunity because it means that I get to keep my kidney but it can be a pain in the bahookie sometimes. 

Last week my immune system went into overdrive over a tickly sore throat and whacked my batteries down to zero for a good three days. Ivie did a brilliant job of looking after me in amongst everything else on his to-do-list and, by Saturday, I was fit enough to sit up, watch three games of rugby back-to-back and channel my inner Ian Morton*. 

Thankfully, I had enough energy for reading and managed to polish off three books (including When I First Held You by Anstey Harris, who lives in Brig of Dee - check out her other books). It was a real luxury and made me appreciate my quiet little life. 

Ivie has had less time on his hands as you can imagine and his lack of patience with the pup tells me that the end of broken sleep and lambing is in sight. He's now down to single figures, which is great, but it does mean that activity in the shed slows down considerably. 

At the end of February, the days flew by for Ivie and the rest of the Fishers getting stuck in. There were multiple multiple births and the momentum kept Ivie's spirits up. For the last few nights, though, it's taken longer for Ivie to get his boiler suit, wellies and waterproofs on than it has to trail up to the shed, see there's nothing happening and trail back down again. 

I like to think I am very helpful during lambing

On the plus side, lambing at the Spittal will be finished before many others have even started. As usual at this time of year, lots of conversations while we've been out and about have centred around start and end dates, numbers of ewes and other such details. I have noticed that I understand more of these farmery conversations as the years go on and I can even make the occasional helpful contribution. They're so occasional, though, that I can't think of an example right now.... 

I have to admit I switched off when the conversation turned to grass the other night in Aldi (sorry, Stuart) but at least we were in the biscuit aisle and I could eye up some unplanned purchases. It turns out that lambing is a great excuse for buying treats that aren't on the list, even if typing is the only exercise I get all day. 

Spotted during conversation about grass (thanks, Stuart)

*For those of you not lucky enough to know Mr Morton Snr, his style of rugby support involves a lot of shouting and sweary words. I think Ivie is his trainee....

The Sweet Smell of Success

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Immunity
2. Persil

Lambing is well underway at The Spittal. I'm told there are around 40 ewes left to lamb but that they'll probably string it out until the end of the month. I'm looking forward to the end of the month because a. I'll be 49 (the nerdy bit of my brain likes that it's 7x7) and b. we're having a wee trip away to Peggyslea Clydesdales (more in a future blog, I'm sure). 

Ivie is on nightshift duty, which means he dozes on the sofa in between reruns of Death in Paradise (the music is the only good bit if you ask me) and comes to bed between 2am and 3am after swearing at some ewes. 

The other thing that happens at this time of year is that Ivie needs more reminders to change his working clothes. (Usually, Ivie changes his working clothes every week, which is a compromise since I'd prefer him to change them every day and he wouldn't.)

During lambing, the frequency of wash cycles increases slightly since Ivie is in his working clothes for around 18 hours a day, wrestling ewes to the ground (not for fun, you understand) and helping lambs make their way into the world. 

Looking back at the blog I've just linked to about wash cycles, it seems that not much has changed in three years. I'm not sure whether to be depressed that we're still having the same conversation about the washing machine or relieved that we haven't any major disagreements to sort out (other than, "I won't be long," being the biggest fib ever). 

Off down the mine to the lambing shed

I thought my immunity to farm smells was at full strength but apparently not. This morning I had to insist Ivie lower his arm in case I passed out before I'd even got out of bed. And then remind him that he'd promised to change his clothes yesterday. His immunity is obviously far more advanced than mine. 

Luckily we went out for lunch today, which I've discovered is motivation for Ivie to wash, shave and put on clean clothes. I like to think that it's a general sense of pride, rather than an attempt to pull at the Brigend Pantry. 

It could end up quite an expensive way of having a fresh smelling boyfriend but it might just be worth it. 

Old Habits Die Hard

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Tea
2. Naps

You might remember that I went on a writing course back in October (I wrote about it in this blog). Well, I've just been on another one. 

In the run-up - as well as looking forward to spending a whole weekend writing and chatting to other people about their writing - one of the things I was most looking forward to was having a slower start to my day. Usually, I'm up, dressed and out with the dog before my eyes are fully open and my body is fully upright. 

Pre-dog, I'd shuffle about in my jammies for a bit, make a cuppa and then think about the day ahead. What joy it would be to relive those days! 

Except what I actually did was wake up at my usual time, get dressed quickly and wonder if the tutor's puppy would like to go for a walk. Even when she didn't, I was out strolling around Brig o Dee before 8am* and thinking about my first cup of tea of the day. 

I've never smoked (except in a pub one night in Cupar, which just left me with a sore throat and sore chest. The fact that the smoking took place inside tells you how long ago it was). However, I imagine the first cigarette of the day is very much like the first cup of tea: nothing else hits that high and you spend the rest of the day trying to recreate it. (A tea problem, me? Absolutely not. I could give up any time I like; I just choose not to.)

I got back from the weekend tired but happy. I'd learned loads and met some great new friends but what I hadn't done was sleep a lot. Despite a ludicrously big bed all to myself, my brain had been too busy to switch off and I arrived home in need of a nap. 

I already know that I am always going to be lazy compared with Ivie (I wrote about it in this blog) and this week I remembered that I can never, ever mention that I am tired. 

Luckily, Ivie is very relaxed about the different paces of our lives. A busy weekend for me is meeting friends for lunch, a rummage in Wigtown Community Shop and a dog walk with a friend (which also includes lunch). A busy weekend for Ivie involves a full day of work, lambing three ewes at 1am, coming to bed just after 2 and and then doing it all again. 

He rarely complains so I definitely don't feel I can moan about being tired when I was basically being force fed cake and laughing till I cried at (true) stories of hamsters and firemen. (It's a bit like the unspoken rule of not mentioning you got less than your usual 8 hours to new parents of a tiny human.)

Thanks to Drew, Ivie has had a couple of nights off from the nightshift so we're managing to go to bed at the same time, something we take for granted the rest of the year. His alarm will still go off before mine as I tell myself that if only I could have a day off from walking the dog, I'd be having a lie in with a cuppa. It seems you can't teach an old dog new tricks after all. 

* I know this is mid-afternoon by farm standards.

Let's Face the Music

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Love and Romance
2. Don't be ridiculous, of course I haven't! 

What I've really been thinking about:

1. Crabbit and thrawn farmer(s).
2. Glitter balls and disco lights. 

I can't believe we're halfway through February already. The first few weeks of the year have flown by and I can just about see Spring at the end of the tunnel that is a Scottish winter. 

Of course, for some people halfway through February means only one thing - posting on Facebook/Twitter/Insta how much they love their significant other/best friend/dog (when the rest of the year all they post is what a pain they are). 

💖(I'm not really hard hearted)

At least at the Spittal we're consistent - we moan about each other 365 days a year we rub along day to day, laughing at each other's jokes and the absurdity of life, and getting on pretty well. To be fair, I think I'm harder to live with than Ivie is (and, as Kenny at the Creebridge told me the other night, I should be happy with my lot since I'm punching above my weight as it is).

As well as not winning the pony club quiz at the Creebridge last weekend, I had a night in Glasgow with some friends to watch Strictly. In the car on the way home, we were discussing Scottish words that are common in the North of England (where the friends I was with have both spent time living). They'd heard of crabbit but thrawn was a new one for them both. But more of that later. 

The other thing that marks mid-February at the Spittal is the start of lambing. It's started a wee bit early this year but, so far, Ivie's still getting a full night's sleep and is more or less on an even keel. Except one night last week when the dog was particularly unenthusiastic about carrying out her last ablutions and getting the **** to bed. 

First lambs of 2023

Let me tell you the secret for getting the dog to do what she needs to do. All you have to say is, "Let's go disco!" and she'll perform (it's a long story which basically involves my reluctance to stand outside shouting "pees" and the flashing light setting on my head torch. Don't judge me. Sometimes I have to make my own entertainment). 

• Guess how keen Ivie is to stand outside going, "Let's go disco!" 
• And have a guess as to how long he will stand outside in the dark and cold while the dog sniffs every blade of grass instead. 

I think you can guess the answer to both of those questions, as well as seeing how well 

they illustrate the definitions of crabbit and thrawn. And we're barely at the start of lambing; it's only going to get worse. 

Unhealthy and Unsafely

What I’ve been thinking about this week:

1. Lambing
2. Health and Safety

Here we are again. The end of January is in sight and February marks the beginning of lambing. There are a couple of weeks before it all kicks off but this time of year always makes me think about how little I’ll see Ivie and how best to deal with that. 

I have to say, it’s not such a daunting prospect this year: partly because life feels more normal than it has done for the last three years so my own life away from the farm is busier; and partly because I know what to expect. 

I’m not big on big gestures (just as well, eh) and I don’t need expensive presents in my life (ditto) but one of the things that makes me feel happy in a relationship is uninterrupted, quality time. 

This can be a challenge in amongst farm life. We can be like ships that pass in the night and, as you can imagine, this is even more so during lambing when Ivie spends his evenings snoozing on the sofa and I get used to not stirring when he comes to bed in the wee small hours.  

We’ve tried to take a more proactive approach this year, frontloading some time together before the insanity kicks in. We had a night away in a hotel this weekend where we ate, drank and were merry (Ivie greatly so) and had a visit to the Devil’s Porridge Museum at Eastriggs. 

It tells the story of the cordite factory that spread across 9 miles at Gretna and Eastriggs during the First World War. At its peak, it employed 30,000 people and produced 11,000 tonnes of the stuff a week. Health and Safety wasn’t really a thing and the young women who worked there (most of whom were under 18) were known as Canary Girls because of the yellow hue of their skin. It’s well worth a visit if you’re passing by on the way to the M6. 

I know it’s easy to talk about Health and Safety gone mad and all that but we’ve come a long way in the 100 years or so since the end of WWI. I was a bit alarmed when I discovered that farming is one of the most dangerous industries in the country but it makes sense when you think about it. Let’s face it, I’d have to be going some to sustain an injury in my job. Health and safety really would have to go mad for me to have to enter ‘paper cut’ or ‘stabbed myself with a staple’ into an accident book. 

Which brings me to the sight I saw before me this afternoon. Ivie and I came out to the shed to have a cuppa before I started writing. He finished his coffee and announced he was off to chop kindling and get the fire going in the house. 

As he walked across the grass, I happened to notice that he was wearing his slippers. TO GO AND CHOP WOOD! 

It makes me wonder if the statistics about farmers hurting themselves actually involve farming or just plain stupidity. Answers on a postcard (but watch you don’t cut yourself on the sharp corners). 

Hi De Hi

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Holidays
2. To do lists

I'm really lucky that my workplace closes down for two weeks over the festivities. It had been pretty non-stop in the run-up so I was glad to close down my emails and switch off my work phone on the 22nd and not think about it too much until about now. 

I'm also really lucky that I enjoy my job so I don't have that back to work dread that many people experience at this time of year. A glance at my Facebook memories reminds me that this hasn't always been the case, although I still stand by my status update from 2011:

"...the first week back at work after Christmas should be like the first week of primary school: in till lunchtime then home for a nap and a change into playing clothes."

I had great plans over the holidays with quite an extensive to do list on the go. So far, all I've managed is washing my walking boots and doing a review of my year. (To be fair, I did try phoning HMRC about my tax bill but gave up after 25 minutes on hold, suspecting that my call wasn't quite as important to them as they would have me believe.)

I still find it tricky sometimes that Ivie doesn't have a traditional 9-5 with free weekends, especially when I've got all this time off and we're hurtling towards lambing time. He might be awake in body from time to time but he won't be 100% conscious and engaged or able to hold a conversation beyond lambing stats - number left to lamb, number of triplets, when he last had a full night's sleep, you know the kind of thing.

Luckily, there's a solution to my need for quality time with my significant other away from the ranch. Meet the campervan that we now co-own with our next door neighbours!

We had our first night in it parked up at Sandhead last night. We had a very rock n roll evening, eating home made curry, watching the dog run herself daft on the beach and playing Scrabble. Scrabble is my 'sport' and Ivie plays me once or twice a year to balance out the actual sport he's tried to get me involved in over the years (none successfully, you'll be surprised to hear).

If Old McDonald played Scrabble

I'm looking forward to more mini breaks, getting to know this corner of the world more. Moving to the Spittal just before the first lockdown got in the way of that a bit, although this week alone we've managed a trip to Cruggleton and getting lost at Kirroughtree. I'm just wondering where else we can squeeze in before lambing 2023 gets underway.... (suggestions welcome!). Now that's a to-do list I can get behind.